Memento Vivere
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Don't worry about looking up the Latin. There'll be a Roman later in the story who can translate for you. First the Doctor has to have an argument with the Tardis, and Clara has to get dressed up like a spy. Don't worry; there's a time for everything. (A three-shot in progress, dedicated to the 'Rory Williams Is The New Chuck Norris' FB page. Much love, guys.)
1. Chapter 1

Clara's at home. Of course she is. She's always at home. I'll admit, it's not a concept I'm familiar with. A home you have to be _at_. A home you go to when you're finished with other things. A home which is stationary, and just a place, like any other, except it's not really a destination, so it's not a place, it's just… _home_? No. Sorry, I'm not getting it. Let's face it, even when I had one I was running away from it. I never had much chance at understanding this idea of 'home'. No, my home travels with me, like a turtle's, only faster, and a much nicer colour.

No offence to any turtles or turtle-like beings who might be reading this. I am, of course, prejudiced in favour of the Tardis.

What was I saying? Oh yes. Clara. At home. House, attic room, nanny, two kids, all that business. She is at home, which is lucky, because that's where I go to pick her up. "Clara?" She's not in the kitchen. "_Cla_-ra?" She's not in the living room. "Come out, come out wherever you are." She's not in the garden, and I can't help but get the feeling that this would be much more fun if it were a pop-up book, with little flaps to look behind, because then I'd be able to see when I was getting close to the end. Hall, dining room, stairs, landing, "Clara Oswin Oswald? C.O.O., _Coo_, ha, your initials sound like a pigeon!" She's not responding. She ought to have something sarcastic to say about pigeons. I can't think what it would be, but that's because I'm not Clara. She would know what to say…

The silence on the upstairs landing becomes lonely, and a little worrying. I was sure she was here.

"Clara?"

Finally, there is a shuffle above me, and a hefty thumpf against the ceiling. A pair of scraping, shuffling footsteps, and she appears at the top of the attic stairs, in the door of her room. "You must be joking," she groans.

That's my greeting. 'You must be joking.' Then, as my eyes adjust to the dim light up there, I jump and promptly avert them. "_Clara_! Please-"

"What?"

"You're in your _night-things_."

"…Pyjamas, Doctor?"

"Oh. Is that alright with humans, seeing you in your jim-jams? I like jim-jams. I have ones with stars on them."

"I didn't think you slept."

"Don't be silly, Clara, of course I do. Everybody sleeps."

"See, that's funny, because obviously you think I don't." Oh. She's got her arms folded. I couldn't see that before. I was so quick to blind myself for the sake of propriety, so quick to think of her modesty and my status as a gentleman, that I couldn't see that her arms are folded. Or that she has that 'unimpressed' look on her face. You know the one. The one where you can write 'unimpressed' inside little quotes like that, because it's as if she has that expression printed on a little card and she can just reach for it any time she needs to.

I'm suddenly terribly afraid that she's stayed at the top of those stairs just so she can more effectively pounce and tear me limb from limb.

Cringing, "Is it _very_ late?"

"It's _very_ bloody early. You're lucky Mr Maitland's away for the night."

"Angie and Artie?"

"Oh, it'll take more than you to wake them up."

"Ah. Squadron of charging Judoon, is it?"

Clara rolls her eyes. "Is that how they say it on _your_ planet?" Present tense. She used the present tense. Tenses are difficult, aren't they? Yes, tenses are awfully difficult. There's no sense in correcting her if it's only just because tenses are so difficult. No sense in faltering, making her feel like she did something wrong. I depend on the darkness to hide any reaction that might make her feel that way. In my silence, "Anyway, Doctor, what do you want?"

Ah, now this I can answer. I can wake her up, get her buzzing, can't I? I'm better than coffee. Yeah, that's it. The Doctor: Better Than Coffee. I should get that on a business card. "You, me, bit of mystery and intrigue? I want to go and borrow an immensely powerful, very dangerous scientific instrument from its highly-guarded, very secure little bed, away from people who probably don't want to lend it to me. You'll have fun. Promise. Cross my hearts." And I do, I cross them, to make the promise real and unbreakable. Clara sits down on that top step and leans her head on one hand. That's not her 'unimpressed' face anymore. It's her 'you're a big spacey idiot' face. Remind me again why I have friends who only seem to have derogatory faces… It takes me a moment to read her meaning and then, "Oh, but Clara, I crossed my hearts and everything!"

"I'd ask if you missed the part where I told you Mr Maitland's away and Angie and Artie are still here, but you replied to me when I said that."

"Bring them along! They'll have fun too. Promise. Cross m-" Clara holds out a hand to stop me, even as I lift up my pointer fingers, reliable old crossers.

"Before you do that, think back on the offer you just made me and tell me we're really bringing the kids along."

"…Alright, bit dangerous."

Now it's my turn to fold my arms, leaning on the wall, kicking back my heels. "Don't sulk," Clara mutters, "You're scuffing the wall. You go ahead. I'm sure you can handle it. You were okay before you met me."

No, no I wasn't, but I don't think this is really the time for that conversation. And while I am a firm believer in the infinity of time, and that a time exists for everything, and that everything will have its moment to be right, and even somebody really horrible like Hitler got to say that zwei plus zwei equalled fier as a child, I really home I never actually live through the time for that conversation. I'm happy enough to skip it, thanks very much. But the fact is I wasn't fine before her and I don't want to go into the jaws of danger and excitement without her. Quite apart from the fact that she'll have a good time (I crossed my hearts, didn't I?), she's all lovely and smart and useful and people still like her even when I'm saying something stupid.

And how do I articulate all that? What do I say to her, in the face of an unfair accusation of sulking?

"…Don'wanna…"

Clara shrugs. "Well, then, you'll have to wait. Mr Maitland should be back by lunchtime. We'll go then."

"So what's lunchtime, about nine a.m?"

"About one p.m."

"_What_? Clara, what on earth am I supposed to do for…" Checking my watch makes me almost physically ill, "Seven hours, thirty two minutes and fifty nine seconds consecutively?!"

She stands up and starts shuffling back to bed. For the record, she has very nice jim-jams, with stripey bottoms and lacy bits on the top. They look rumpled and warm and very comfy. Yawning, she grumbles over her shoulder, "I'll tell you what I tell the kids; only boring people are bored."

Oh, well, now it's a _challenge_.

Me, boring? I can amuse myself on Earth for seven hours, thirty one minutes and twenty eight seconds. I can amuse myself on Earth for _days_. There's loads of stuff to do. Legoland, for instance. I'll go to Legoland, and where the model villages are, I'll build an exact replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. They'll make it a feature, like a temporary exhibit by a famous artist. And when they're finished with that and they've taken lots of pictures, I'll build them Alexander's Library. Lifesize. Yes, that's it, I'll go to Legoland… Except it doesn't open for another couple of hours. Damn. Neither does the zoo, or the safari park, and all the shopkeepers are all in bed.

So I get my football from the Tardis and start trying to beat my keepy-uppy record in the garden. Apparently, though, the thud of the ball is too loud, and before I'm at thirty Clara is at her window, rapping and telling me to sod off. At least, I think that's what she's saying. If I'm honest, it's not the shape her lips are making, but I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she's telling me to _sod_ off.

Suppose I could go away and come back again, but what if I miss her? No, best I just stay local.

Spend some time with the Tardis, maybe? I sit down. Nothing happens. She's a machine, after all, and not in need of any maintenance. I took care of all that the other night, in my starry jim-jams when I couldn't sleep. She doesn't have any suggestions, or anything to say. "Well," I tell her. "This is nice, isn't it?" Nothing happens. She just hums. It would be alright, if she'd hum a tune. We could have a singsong. But she just hums that engine hum she usually hums and I don't want to sing along with that. Might put myself in a trance, and then where would we be? She just sits there, humming at me, waiting for _me_ to get up and do something. "Well, who do I still _know_ on Earth?" I moan in the end. "Apart from Clara, I mean. Do I have any visits to make? That's what people do when they're in somebody's area, isn't it? I could bake a cake."

The hum turns momentarily to a clank. It's only a clank, a mechanical noise, but the meaning is clear; "No. No cakes."

"I got distracted! I just thought it would burn, didn't think it would catch fire. Anyway, you're alright now."

A dial flashes on the console. It's just a dial, but again, it is unequivocal in speaking to me; "Okay, I will pick a destination for you, just please shut up about the fire."

"Don't be angry with me," I tell her. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

The hum fades down a decibel or two. As I approach the console, the activation lever seems almost to reach for me even as I reach for it. "Silly boy. Let's just go."

"You really are quite lovely, old girl."

Clankety-thump; "Get on with it."

I yank back the lever and off we go, landing mere seconds later. We're hardly a step away from Clara's home, only a few dozen miles. A little hop and here we are. "I love magical mystery tours," I tell her, straightening my lapels as I head for the doors. "You should take me out more often."

I open the door, step outside, immediately turn around and try and step _back_ inside. The door has locked itself, and as I fumble for my key I make sure she knows I am not ungrateful for her intervention. "No, you're mistaken. There's nobody here anymore. I don't have to visit this place. There's nobody here to visit, they're all gone. Quite alright, dear, I know it must get confusing for you, so many people in and out all the time, but you can scratch this one off the books, alright?" My key goes in, and turns, but nothing happens. I take it out and begin again. "Key in, check. Turn key, check. Tumblers click, check. And push door." Nothing happens. "Pull door? Are you putting your foot down on the pulling all of a sudden?" I pull the door and still nothing happens. "This isn't funny. If you think this is funny I implore you, think otherwise."

Nothing. Not a hum, not a clank, not a sound. She is solid and immovable and not even listening to me anymore.

I put my hand flat on the door, stroking the fine old wood. "Please?" I would offer to repaint her again, but the bribery sounds crass and obvious even to me. "Please…"

But this, apparently, is where I'm meant to be. Didn't she tell me that once? I'll always be where I'm meant to be.

So I turn back from her again. I go to the house I know, across the street. The front garden is overgrown, bushes pushing out through the iron rail on top of the wall. There's slimy lichen on the stone steps to the front door. I stood here at Christmas, or one of the Christmases anyway, and waited to be punched in the face for playing dead. I left a sporty red car at the curb outside once. There's a spare key hidden in the dried up remains of a hanging basket that A… she must have put up before they left.

Before I took them away, is probably a more honest way to put that.

It's another blue door except this one opens. It squeals on rusty hinges, but it opens for me.

Seven hours, two minutes and nineteen seconds to kill. And if you thought I was counting those silly little seconds before, you ought to see me now.

Inside, there's a smell. A thick, coagulated, cloying sort of a smell. I follow it through the kitchen, where it gets stronger and stronger and ends with me recoiling from the open pourer of a pint of milk. It's long-since curdled, gone green and foul and gelatinous. They were in the middle of making tea when they walked away from it (following me, is the honest way of saying that). There's a teapot sitting with the lid off and two teabags inside it. There's a big builders mug with three molten and crystallized sugars in it that would have been for R… for him, and a little teacup on a pretty saucer for her.

I pick up the milk carton, holding it at arm's length, and take it outside. Next door has their bins out for collection, so I drop it in.

This done, maybe I can go back. But the Tardis is still adamant, still won't let me in.

It's with a sigh, and very heavily, that I go back across the road.

Six hours, fifty six minutes exactly still to kill.

You know, I don't like that phrase 'killing time'. I'm sure you can imagine, there is a small cosmos full of reasons why I don't like that phrase. Firstly, don't murder things. In terms of life rules, that should be right up there at the top, don't you think? Don't murder things. But _especially_ not time. It's so important, and there's so much to do and to get done and really (though once again I'll stress my belief in the infinity of time) there's never going to be enough time to do everything. Never kill time. There's always something you could be working on, believe me.

But right now I would be happy for about six hours and fifty-five minutes to just drop dead and disappear out of existence. Alright, so people in this area might lose a little sleep, and it would be the first major temporal event that the world's ever experienced, and you'd have to start looking into time travel and physics and… That's it! That's why I'm here! I have to kill seven hours dead, just disappear them. Don't you see? It's a fixed point to start humans on the route to intertemporal technology and existence! I _knew_ the Tardis wasn't just being nasty.

On the doorstep, I shut my eyes very tightly, and I wish very, very hard… And when I open them again, my watch still says what it did before. A couple of seconds gone, maybe, but no more than that. It seems I just lack the power to kill time. Time's bigger and tougher than me. And so I sigh again and go inside.

It takes an hour and a half to clean the kitchen free of that stench. Another hour to hoover the house. Forty-five minutes to dust, followed by another hour of hovering because once you dust the dust goes everywhere and everything's stinking again. Then I catalogue the various collections – books, DVDs, magazines and CDs alphabetically, clothes by size, colour and season, travel souvenirs and knick-knacks by country of origin from west to east, photographs all face down as I pass them. That thing about the photographs, that's not really a collection, that's just something I'm doing. I tried to slip it in with the collections so you wouldn't notice and hate me for it. Then I felt guilty for trying to trick you and came clean. Now you can think whatever you want. They were just looking at me, and they were calling me names for doing all the cleaning and organizing, and then they'd just look at me again. They're just photographs, but they can still look at you.

That all took a while. It's a few minutes until one p.m. Killed time nicely there, didn't I? I'm all dusty and I didn't even have to think about the P… about them while I was in there. I go out and turn the key in the Tardis door again. It nearly unlatches and then struggles with me. I lift up my watch and tap the face, indicating that I am less than four minutes shy of my appointment with Clara. I don't want to say that out loud, simply because I do not want to share words with her right now.

The door gives in and opens. I throw it closed behind me, walk directly to the console. Change the coordinates, pull the lever, sit down hard. Somewhere in the middle of that brief flight there's a high, whingeing sort of a whine from the rotor. Saying, quite clearly, "_Oh now, _listen_ to me_…"

"I can't even look you in the console right now." The whine goes away. Too quiet. "Was there a point to that?"

But then we've landed and there's no need to wait for an answer. I go out, and instead of waiting in the Tardis for Clara to duck in at the door, I go out and wait at the wall of the house. Spot my football lying in the garden and give the old record another go. But for some reason I can't make it past fifteen keepy-ups before I lose the ball. Must be distracted.

By the time she comes out, I'm kicking it up against the wall, just keeping my feet busy while I think. I don't hear her coming until, "You have got your hands in your pockets and your head down. Have you been shuffling round my neighbourhood kicking a football like a ten year old for eight hours, Doctor?"

I stop the ball and turn. Answer her question with a much more important, very baffled counter-question. "What _are_ you wearing?"

It's sort of a silly question. I can _see_ what she's wearing after all. The question is more about obtaining an explanation for her outfit. It consists of a knit dress with no sleeves and a tight turtleneck, black tights, black heel boots, and a long black coat. Summon that image in your head and join in me a world of befuddlement and perplexity.

Clara, however, seems dead proud of herself, so maybe it's fashion or something. She grins all over her face, opens out her coat and does a little twirl to show me. "Well, it all sounded very James Bond, this business of borrowing things you're not allowed to borrow. So I thought I'd dress for the occasion." The twirl ends with her looking at me again. Her face falls. "Doctor? What's wrong? Is it awful?" While I swallow the lump in my throat, "_I_ thought I looked like a spy…"

I tell her, "You look like a little button doll dressed as a spy. Who I would very much like to hug right now." And before she can reply I have swept her up, my arms pinning hers down so she can't hug me back, but I can hold her very tightly. She's heavy, you know. Not 'heavy' in any way that would make her throw me off and slap me, but heavy like humans are, like another person is when you pull them in and they're against you. And by the time I've released her, I'm ready. I release her only at one side and spin her away from me, bring a bit of sparkle back to proceedings.

"Well, Mrs Peel-"

"Who?"

"…Before your time again? I miss the sixties. After this, night out in the sixties, alright? But for now, Miss _Bond_, let's you and I off and borrow something we're not allowed to borrow, eh?"

She hangs on my arm just enough to slow me to walking pace before she lets go. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if something was wrong?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying?"

"No."

"Are you still lying?"

"No."

"Then you _were_ lying the first time?"

"…_Yes_?" She stares at me and shakes her head. Probably figuring out that what works on Angie and Artie will not necessarily work on me. Just because she's had success in the past with that tactic doesn't mean it'll happen all the time. I'm _far_ too clever to always fall for the same things, and far too stupid to argue myself out of the 'are you lying' question effectively. "Nothing's wrong," I assure her, holding the door of the Tardis open. She goes ahead of me and there isn't a murmur from the machine I so recently loved so much. And yet as soon as I close the door there's a whir and a series of ratcheting clicks like a rollercoaster cart up over our heads.

Clara's eyes follow the sound from one side to the other. In the meantime, I walk past her and co-ordinate our next trip manually, without assistance even from the central computer. "I _think_ she was talking to you," Clara murmurs, when I don't immediately jump to reply aloud to a machine which cannot communicate with me by mechanical sounds and signals. She can't. It was all just whimsy, it was inside my head, not real at all. She wasn't _talking_ to anybody. She made a noise, that's all. "Doctor?"

"Well, you can tell her I'm not talking to her."

"_Oh_ no. Oh no. No way. No." Clara turns on her very fine spy heel and starts clacking back the door.

"Where are you going?"

"She already hates me without me being your go-between. You're off your rocker if you think I'm letting you drive a machine you're not talking to. That's like getting in a taxi and the driver says him and the car had an argument earlier on."

"The driver of a standard Earth taxi is unlikely to have a car with a mind of its own. Saying something like that would probably mean more about his mental health than about the actual machine."

"I _still_ wouldn't get in that taxi. No way. You two-" and here she points back and forth between me and the rotor. "Hug it out or something, but you better get over it or I'm not coming with you."

She's got her arms folded again. Got her 'unimpressed' face back on. And she's a lot more imposing now that she's not in her powder blue pyjamas anymore. I try, I honestly do try, to stare her down. I'm going to stand my ground. I was put in a very terrible place this morning. I don't understand why it was done to me. I don't like the idea that I've been betrayed somehow by my Tardis, my old girl, my own _home_. No, I'm standing my ground on this one.

…For all of ten seconds before she gets to me. Clara has big warm eyes, but they can be very hard when she wants them to be.

I turn to the rotor, open my arms. "Clara thinks I should forgive you. What do you make of that?"

Nothing at first. Then, very small, very slight, a sort of mumbling moan.

"Fine then. You're forgiven. Now, I've given you the co-ordinates." I grab hold of the lever and make sure Clara's got both arms and legs inside the box, thank you very much… "So let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

Clara was right, I suppose. I must have been too hard on the Tardis before. Maybe she just made a mistake. Maybe the lock was genuinely broken for a bit, and she worked very hard to fix it for me. Maybe I should just go with that story and believe it.

This change of hearts is nothing to do with the fact that she hasn't said another clunk to me. Not a clunk nor a whistle nor a whir, but this is nothing to do with that. I'm not getting paranoid or anything. She's not going to guilt trip me into talking to her. Anyway, she's already forgiven, so I don't know what that would even have to do with anything. No, I'm being the bigger man out of the two of us because… Because I'm the only man, she's a machine, and a she, so… I'm being the bigger semi-sentient creation out of the two of us because I have _chosen_ to be, not because she's awfully silent, behind her usual flight noises. Not because I'm afraid she might be going off me, after all these years. She wouldn't do a thing like that. She knows better. I am her pilot. And she is my home and my transport and my only occupation and

_I am not panicking_.

"Clara?" I'm not distracting myself. "Have a nice lie-in this morning?"

"Lie in? I had to get back up at seven to get the kids off to school."

"Want to skip the small talk, then?"

She grins, "Yes, please." Clara comes quickly round to me, expecting me to show her things on the monitor. Trouble is, there's nothing on the monitor. I'd have to get the sonic out and actually put something up there. I don't usually have to do that. Usually the Tardis knows what's coming and there's something just there.

Like I said, I _could_ use the sonic. But I don't really want to give her the satisfaction. No, this time, I'm just going to rely on my storytelling skills.

"So?" she prompts. "Start with _where_ we're going."

"_Where_ we're going, my dear Agent Oswald, is deep, deep into the future, hence the long flight. And we're going there to chase a rumour."

"An intriguing rumour, Agent Doctor?"

"Oh, yes, I like that, go with that. Actually, go with _Secret _Agent Doctor. Secret agents are…?" Leaving it open, leaving it hanging, waiting for Clara-

"…Cool, Secret Agent Doctor?"

"That's my girl. And to answer your question, yes, a very intriguing rumour."

She leans back against the console, "Intrigue me." Which is a challenge, if I'm not much mistaken. She has asked to be intrigued. If I can't intrigue her, I'm failing. And I can't add a failure onto this day.

And so I begin to spin Clara a tale of danger and mystery. I tell her about a scientific instrument that was created for the purposes of totally legitimate research. I tell her how, for once in their long and not-so-illustrious history, humanity realized _in time_ that it could be used for ill, that it could corrupt the user, that the cons outweighed the pros. But they were unwilling to destroy it entirely. So that it could be used again if necessary, it was sent to an isolated, barren planet on the edge of the system, and locked away, and guarded day and night by some of the most dedicated and highly trained staff you'll find for galaxies and galaxies around.

"But wouldn't the power of the weapon corrupt the guards too?"

"Not these guards, Clara. These guards are, rumour has it, from a special cadre. And before they become a part of it, they are tried and tested and tormented, so that they can prove themselves men and women of incredible character. They are stalwart and strong and honest, or they don't make the cut."

"They sound quite nice, for soldiers."

Well, that's what I thought, when I heard the rumour. They sounded like they'd probably listen to reason when I tell them I'm borrowing their precious charge.

Which leads us neatly to Clara's next question. "So what actually is this thing we're going to steal?"

"Borrow."

"Without asking."

"With every intention of giving back. Asking is not essential, giving back is. Somebody very wise and very smart and very lovely once gave me that definition of stealing." Somebody who I know can hear me and who is still refusing to click, whir, purr, clank, rattle, _anything, sexy, give me a sign_!

I do a quick circuit of the console, looking for flashing lights, for anything on the monitor, for anything. Clara, though, still thinks we're having _our_ conversation and there's nothing more important on my mind. She follows me step for step, "Steal, borrow, whatever, what _is_ it?!"

"A borrower. Potentially, if used by corrupt hands, a stealer."

Dark and expectant, "Of what?"

"Souls."

Clara just stops. Unfortunately, it's time to land and she should be holding on to something. Especially with those heels on, they weren't made to support her. Dropping out of the vortex drops her to the floor, sitting down hard in her delightful spy-wear. As soon as we're stopped, I take her by the arm and pick her up on our way to the door, and we run in tandem, happily, into the unknown, but-…

But we stop. Specifically Clara stops and I'm still holding onto her, so that I am tugged back nearly off my feet. I crash, with just as little dignity as you might imagine, on the steps.

I _swear_ to you the Tardis laughs. If you've never heard her laugh I can't describe it to you, but she laughs. On _fine_ form today, really she is. I'm starting to get offended.

Very slowly, trying not to take it out on her, I turn my head towards the woman who just made a fool of me in front of my machine, who was just _waiting_ for something to giggle about. "Yes, Clara?"

"Wait."

"I'm already on my backside, dear, I'd say I'm waiting."

She takes a deep breath and sits down next to me on the step. It's hard to stay angry at her. She's nervous about something. I do like that about her, you know. Along with a lot of other things, but I like how honest she is when she's nervous about something. It won't stop her walking into this with me. She just wants to talk about it before we go. I think that's fair, and I like the way she brings it to me.

It's so easy to say I only ever brought her along because she was already dead twice. I do like a good mystery, I make no bones about that. But honestly, I'd be more offended by somebody saying that than by the Tardis giggling at my fall. It's easy to say it but it's so, so wrong.

"You said 'soul'," is how she begins. "We came across this before, and it nearly didn't end well."

I sling an arm around her shoulders. "We pulled it off."

"And I would understand if you wanted to, like, _investigate_ it further. But why do you need a…a… a_ soul-borrower_?"

"It has other, nicer capacities too."

"Oh," and just like that, she's back on her feet, and this time she's dragging me to the door. "Alright then, let's go."

It would be so easy to say, to say to my face, that Clara was only ever an interesting distraction for me. It would be easy for you say that. Your recovery, however, might be a little more difficult, because I'll… do something really mean. Can't think of anything off the top of my head, but I will get you. I'll fill your shoes with custard when you're not looking. Or I'll swap your perfume for salt and vinegar so that seagulls will mistake you for chips and attack you. Or I'll sonic you so you'll have a miniscule tremor inside every cell of your hand and every time you hold a can of fizzy pop to open it, it'll be fizzed up and spray everywhere and you'll never even know how it's happening. Oh, look, I did think of some things off the top of my head after all.

Clara opens the door and stands a tentative moment on the threshold. I put a hand in the small of her back and push her the rest of the way. She cries out at me, but she's giggling too, and that's better. I close the door behind us, then turn around and try letting myself back in. Absolutely fine. Close the door. This time use my key, check the lock. That's fine too. One more time for good luck. All fine.

"Doctor?"

Ah, Clara! Now there's an idea. I turn to her. "Put your hand out."

"What for?"

"I've got a present for you."

"What is it?"

"Fine, if you don't want it, I'll hold on to it for another d-" Her hand pops up under my nose as quick as you can say Daleks Smell, along with a gabble of 'sorry' and 'only joking' and 'I want my present'. I press the Tardis key into her palm and lean in to whisper in her ear; "I don't want to say it out loud in front of her, but she knows better than to lock a human out. Hold onto that, guard it with your life."

She hops up onto her toes and whispers back, "I want a proper present later on."

"What like? Chips? Ice cream?"

"Yeah. Ice cream should cover it."

"It's a deal. Put that key away in a spy pocket." I watch her do it, zipping it into an impossibly tiny pouch at the waist of her jacket. "Good. Now turn around and look at this incredible place, would you?" It's hard to keep the excitement out of my voice. I take her by the shoulders and help her with the turning, with taking a step forward so we can see everything properly, hear her gasp, looking up in wonder and awe.

Where we've landed, the resting place of what she calls the 'soul-borrower', is hard to describe. The easiest word to use is probably 'temple'. Whatever image comes into your head for the word 'temple', make it twice the size, cover it in gold, send it reaching into eternity with glittering spires, light it up with great plates of fire and a thousand candles, cover its front in exquisitely carved lions and you're still not even there.

How can I make you understand?

Clara is speechless. Does that work? Does that help you get it?

Well, nearly speechless. After the initial shock she manages, "We should have come as explorers instead of secret agents."

I never get tired of impressing her. While she's lost in her rapture, however, I make a quick circuit of the Tardis to make sure she's safe from every side. This is a dangerous place for her. A dangerous place for me too. I've been called a weapon before. If somebody here decides I'm too dangerous to just be running around out amongst the stars, she and I could be in trouble.

By the time Clara turns to talk to me, I'm back in position behind her. "I thought you said we were deep in the future? This looks like ancient… anywhere."

"Remember when I asked you why you were wearing that old charity shop dress?"

"Vintage," she corrects sharply.

"Of course. Do you remember what you told me, about why old things are cool?"

"Because they have stories. Because they make you remember where they came from."

"Well, when humans move away from Earth, they don't have any reminders left, do they? So they build new ones. It's not ancient, it's just… vintage."

"Old school." She comes out of her reverie and starts towards the five-thousand-some steps to the top of the temple. I don't. She's a good way on before she realizes this and turns around. "What? That's your 'I know something you don't know' face."

"That's because I know something you don't know." There's a fine line between teasing a companion and making them feel stupid and sulk. So I explain to her a few of the tricks of Old Earth history while I walk along the moat at the edge of the building. She falls into step while I tell her about the pharaohs. She already knows they built the pyramids, and is very annoyed with me for trying to tell her about that. But what she didn't know, was about the grave robbers. Pharaohs were buried with vast hoards of treasure, gold and jewels and everything you'd need to live as a king in the afterlife. Grave robbers knew this, and would break in as soon as the tomb was sealed. So in order to keep the pharaoh himself from being defiled, the people who designed the pyramids would seal him in a separate room, inaccessible to the grave robbers, because it would have…

"A separate entrance-" We are around the corner. I grab Clara's hand so I can lean across the moat at the length of her arm, standing on just a toe. While she leans back yelping to balance me, I tap the stones of the wall with the sonic. They separate, folding back from centre, disappearing into each other, back and back until they leave a sizeable hole in the wall, "Hidden from the outside world."

"Very clever," she mumbles through her teeth. I look back at her grinning and very quickly realize why she seems so terse. "Doctor?"

"…Yes?"

"Sorry." She can't keep hold of my hand anymore, and I can't swing myself back across the moat. I slip away and splash into the moat.

Luckily it's purely decorative so it's shallow and not dangerous. But I do get very wet, and I can tell you from here the Tardis is laughing again.

Clara apologizes again. She holds out a hand to try and help me up properly this time. Rather than accept it, I put both hands up. "Your foot, if you would."

"I said sorry! You're not dragging me in after you."

"No, it's to give you another foothold so you don't fall in like me."

She thinks about it a little more, deciding whether or not to trust me. Then she places her boot delicately onto my proffered hands. From there, she jumps over me through the secret entrance, and I crawl up out of the water behind her.

While I am wringing out my bowtie, I realize that Clara hasn't actually moved from the spot where she landed. "I know you're not dressed for it, but you could still explore, you know."

But as I get up I start to see what's stopping her. There are, to be specific, two things stopping her. One male, one female. Both looking quite fierce. Both carrying a spear and shield. Both wearing an eerily familiar leather armour that makes my mouth go dry.

"Doctor, are they-?"

"_Roman legionaries_."

Clara breathes out slowly, "_Old-school._"

"You have no idea," I tell her. Then, because I have Clara to protect and nobody else is talking, I step up. Get between them. Let Clara hide behind me and draw myself up to my full height. While I am speaking I redo my tie. It's a feat, you know, doing up a bow tie while talking about something else. It's a bloody difficult thing to do, and I hope our legionary friends are impressed. They don't really look impressed, but maybe that's part of their training. "Lady and Gentleman, there's no need for any hostilities between us. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Doctor, this is my assistant Clara, and we're here on a routine inspection, just to see what the security is like at this facility. And let me say, so far, we're very happy with it. Clara?"

"Oh yeah. Over the moon. Top notch, folks, keep it up."

The legionaries maintain their silence, and the level of their spears. "No? Not happening? I can show you my identification, if that helps." I fish out the psychic paper, make a very strong wish, and hold it out. "What? What's the matter?"

They look at each other, and they seem to decide between themselves that the lady is going to speak. "We have no external inspections," she tells me. "We answer to no one but the Centurion."

"Ah."

Clara rolls her eyes, sticks her elbow into my ribs. "Bit of research, Doctor, before you start lying."

"Why are you on their side?!" But while we bicker, the gentleman is moving around behind us, holding his spear in both hands like a bar to shepherd us along. The lady backs up in front of us, leading. Clara and I are clever enough just to walk, just to go where they're taking us. Clara is clever enough to stop talking. "Listen, please. Please. Legionary, Legionaryette, just let me explain to you why it is that we're here. You'll understand. You'll be sympathetic, I promise."

Legionary pushes a little harder with the shaft of the spear. "You can tell the Centurion when he gets here. He's the one that'll decide what to do with you."

We are being led down a marble hallway, just as detailed and elegant as anything else we've seen. The mosaic frescos on the walls are particularly interesting. The Legionaryette has turned away from us, holding her spear in the crook of her arm while she opens a barred cell door. That's where we get stopped. That's where I stop looking at the walls, because she says, "Tell you what; it won't go well for you, pretending to be the Doctor. You should drop that before you meet the Centurion. You'll never see the light of day again, talking like that."

"_I beg your pardon!?"_

Clara hisses at me, "Maybe leave it while they still have spears?"

"Leave it!? _Leave it_?! Listen to me, you two, go out and look at the mardy Tardis in your front garden and tell me I'm not the Doctor! Look! Look, look at this, look-" I fumble the sonic out of my inside pocket, "What do you call that? Gallifreyan multi-purpose sonic interference technology, that's what you call it, that's a sonic screwdriver and I am the-"

The sonic is snatched from my hand, confiscated by the Legionary. This is in the same moment that his friend gets the cell open and we are both put inside, and the door pulled to. Still, it's hard to stop. "Fine! Take it! You think I've never been put in a cell before, you think I've never had the sonic taken from me? It happens _all the time_, and do you know _why_ that happens?"

"Because you're the Doctor?" Clara asks, and it's nice to finally hear her getting involved.

"Because I am the _Doctor_, Clara. Correct!" I turn back to the bars to put her point to the legionaries and find, again, that I am stopped by two very forceful things.

The first is the gentleman's fist. I find this very unfair. He is taking advantage of the fact that my nose protrudes slightly between the bars to punch me without hurting his knuckles. Clara cries out, and I fall away from the bars. The Legionaryette is telling him off for unnecessary violence, but she doesn't seem all that bothered, deep down.

The second thing is what I was really looking at when the hit landed. Maybe it's something to do with the pain of the blow, but it is burned into my mind, and it is all I see. But it wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. It's a fevered product of my brutality-addled mind. Has to be.

I am up off the floor in the same second I fall, scrabbling back to the bars. There is a fresco on the wall right opposite. I was too busy defending my identity to notice it before, but I see it now.

They're walking away, the Legionaries, leaving us here. "Wait!" I call. They stop. I am pointing, mouth flapping, not forming actual words.

On that wall, in little pieces of marble and tile, is the image of a large, square box, and on its sides are patterns of lines and concentric circles picked out in a blue so bright they seem to glow. A prison, that box, more terrible by far than the cell I stand in now. That box enslaved, for eighteen-hundred years, a length of time I can't even dream of yet, two of the bravest, strongest people I've ever known.

"Why is that on the wall?" I ask them.

They turn towards it, and both in perfect unison give it Caesar's salute, thumping a fist to their hearts. The lady answers, "It's why we do what we do."

They go away then. Clara comes up and puts a hand on my shoulder. Just that much, just that littlest touch, and I spin around, grab her up in both my arms. It's not like the last hug. This is different. This is me trying to hold her down, trying to keep her here. "Oh, Clara. Clara, run away from boxes. Do you hear me? Fear boxes, run away from boxes, just let boxes go about their business and never bother them and never draw any attention to yourself when it comes to boxes. Run away from boxes, Clara."

She pushes away from me, looks at me with a smile and a sweetly confused look on her face. From another tiny pocket on her jacket she produces a clean tissue and gives it to me for my bloodied nose. It's those children she hangs around with; Clara always has a clean tissue. "Except for one box, right, Doctor?"

Since we're not going anywhere, I sit down. As best as I can explain it to her or to you, is this: "When I woke up last, and got changed out of my starry jim-jams, and put on my tie for the day, I thought it was going to be a very different day to this."


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours on, and with my back to the tiled Pandorica on the wall I've been able to relax a bit. Well, I've stopped pacing. Well, it's not the frantic pace it was before. It's a nice, easy-going sort of pacing, that you wouldn't notice, unless you were locked in a cell with me and had nothing else to do by watch. "_Sit down_," Clara growls through her teeth. Clara is starting to get a little bored with captivity. Clara is starting to get a little tetchy.

I know a little bit about tetchy women. Not a lot, admittedly, but I know the key facts. For instance, if it's not a danger or an imposition, it is usually prudent to do what a tetchy woman is asking of you. I sit down.

"See the universe, you said…"

"Clara…"

"All of space and time, you said-"

"Clara, please."

"It'll be fun, you said."

That's a step too far. 'Boring' is an insult I just will not bear. "Tell me it's not. Look me in the eye and tell me it's not."

"I can't."

"See? See! You just like complaining, that's your problem-"

"No, I mean you haven't looked up from the floor. That mosaic over there, outside the cell, what's so special about it? Or scary. Scary might be a better word than special."

She might as well ask me what's so scary about alternate universes, or collapsing timelines, or the cruelty of madmen. Or libraries, if you must take things to their logical conclusion. It's not a story I can tell her. Don't get me wrong, I ought to. Telling her would equip her with the necessary knowledge and information to avoid, at all costs, falling into such circumstances herself. I should tell her all the stories. I should write down all the stories in a book and make a trillion copies and send them to every edge of the cosmos, to every planet in every galaxy.

'Don't Run Off: A Collection of Cautionary Tales, by The Doctor'

It's got a ring to it, actually.

I ought to. Does it count for anything if I'm just aware that I ought to? Anyway, I don't get a chance. No, that's a lie – I have more than enough time to start, but I would never have gotten to finish the tale, so it's a good thing I didn't. Clara will just have to wait for the book like everybody else, because there are footsteps in the corridor. Someone is coming. Specifically, three people, which is one more than left us, which is promising.

"Hello?" I call through the bars, before anybody comes into sight. "It's only me. I'm the big handsome misunderstanding in the cell with the attractive little misunderstanding."

Clara folds her arms, muttering, "You can't distract me with flattery." How does she always know my clever schemes? The woman's a mastermind…

Our captors return, Legionary and Legionaryette. They come first, ahead of new feet. The armour on this new arrival is of a better quality, and with more decorative flourish. There's a heavy red cloak swinging from his shoulders. He carries a short sword, rather than their spears, and his shield is of a heavier, brighter stuff, tacked all over with brass studs. And my conclusions, from all of this, from the way he holds himself, the pride and determination in his eye? The boss.

He comes right up to us. Looks at me dead on. Grimly silent. I feel Clara quail, but then again, there's steel bars between him and us.

I stick my hand out through them to be shaken. "Hello. How do you do?" Good manners are the cornerstone of good diplomacy. I did my thesis on that at the Academy. They laughed at me until they read it. Then they stopped laughing and gave me exasperated looks, but that's beside the point; whether they believed me or not I've found it to be very, very effective. A smile doesn't cost a thing, you know. Never fully dressed without one. Laugh and the world laughs with you.

I shouldn't have time to think all this. He's still just staring at me. But I keep the smile up. That's what's important here, is the smile, my stars, I wish he'd do something…

Eventually, something changes. He doesn't shake my hand, but there's a flare of something sharp and sentimental, and he barks over his shoulder, "Horace, bring those keys."

Horace, it would seem, is the name of the legionary. Which is good to know. Now I can drop the unintentionally diminutive '-ette' from the lady's epithet, even if I don't get her name. She can just be 'the legionary' now, no need for gender divisions. (This probably counts as cheating, but I can't imagine any of my current audience surviving so long as for it to matter, but you humans do away with the gender binary for a couple of hundred years. Don't worry about when. It's too far in your future to matter. Just trust me when I tell you it was very good fun, if a little difficult to govern, and I very much miss it when it gets reinstated. It was confusing, though. I could never have used the term 'legionaryette' during those couple of hundred years, I'd have been exiled. Sorry, I digress. I was being captured and diplomatic and I've digressed and spoiled the whole thing now. Sorry. I'll close these brackets now. Sorry.)

Horace, who before my digression was to bring the keys, brings the keys. He releases myself and Clara. Looks a bit confused about why, but good soldiers with good superiors don't question them. His obedience is a good sign. So is the fact that the lady is still holding out her spear, ready to herd us right back in there if we make one false move against her commander.

For the centurion's part, his steely face doesn't move, doesn't so much as twitch. There is, however, the very edge of a smile on his voice when he tells her, "Put it away, Flavia. Not necessary." (Horace and Flavia, by the way, just so you're all caught up. This isn't a digression, this is me making sure everybody's on the same metaphorical page as well as physical.) "This man" her leader tells her, "is exactly who he says he is."

Horace panics. Out of the side of his armour, he scrabbles for the sonic, and holds it out to me at arm's length as if I might bite. I accept it gently, graciously. Then, finally the Centurion's smile surfaces. He gives me the same closed-hand salute his subordinates gave the mural before. They follow his lead and give it to me now, and this time go down on one knee with it.

"Oh, no," I say, "none of that, thank you, no kneeling, it's alright, really, I'm not that important. Clever, and handsome, and very, very cool, but nothing you need to kneel down for." They look more perplexed about getting up than they did about the initial descent. I'm going against the training, you understand. Apparently I'm quite the figure to this private army. Which, considering they seem a courageous and honest sort, I'm alright with.

"You don't look like the pictures," Flavia says.

There's a note of apology about it; sorry for taking us prisoner, even though she didn't know who we were and we arrived in much the same manner as any other thief. I very much want to put her mind at rest. "Well, what pictures have you got, because that could be understandable."

I don't get an answer. Horace interrupts, just can't help himself, "Is the Great Centurion with you? We always hope, but-"

A lot of things come home to me. Facts, definites, things to be sure of. _Reality_. This reality, here and now, as things stand, comes home to me.

"…Not this time. Sorry."

"It's still the Doctor." Flavia looks disgusted with him, rolls her eyes. "It's still not a bad day."

Slow terror draws over Horace again. "…And I punched him in the nose. I punched the Doctor in the nose. Oh gods, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"On the contrary; your Centurion would have been _proud_."

It is at this that the current Centurion, the one who's actually in the room , the boss with the shield, he steps between them and me. "Let the man breathe, would you?" Turning back to me, "I take it you've come to see Anna."

No. To see a big machine that can borrow out souls and track them and analyse them and do all sorts of interesting things. Don't tell me I've just spent hours in a cell with excellent views of an artist's impression Pandorica (which, remind me, I have to talk to you about reality in a minute) and I'm in the wrong temple. Actually, really, _really_ don't tell me that, because I'm absolutely sure I got the coordinates right, so if I'm in the wrong place, that means You-Know-Who has been messing me about again, and after the lock-out this morning, her and I are on some thin ice already and-

He's waiting for an answer. "I'd love to see Anna, yes, yes I would."

In the background of all this, behind his questioning and me thinking and ranting and answering, Horace and Flavia have turned their curious attentions to Clara.

It began with Flavia. She said, "And you? Who are you?"

"Clara Oswald. The Doctor and I travel together."

To which Horace replied, "Oh," and both Horace and Flavia lost interest after that. And I can feel Clara wilting. I can feel her silently asking herself why she is 'oh'. What does 'oh' mean, she's thinking. I want to turn round and tell her that it's nothing to worry about. Clara is lovely. It's not Clara they're 'oh'-ing at. Clara is delightful and therefore they will be delighted by her, when they get to know her. It's just that the legionaries have heard a different story. She's not in the legend. Yet. She will be soon enough.

But I can't tell her all that. Can't stop to comfort her. I'm being diplomatic with the Centurion.

Turns out, it's not sensible to leave Clara hanging. She takes matters into her own hands. Literally, actually. I become gradually aware of her little white hands, pressed together, easing between the Centurion and I, and pushing us apart.

"Excuse me," she says, not missing a step as the whole party moves off towards the mysterious Anna, "but I have no idea what's going on here. You all do, and he's pretending he does." (He is me, by the way, I'm the pretender, apparently) "But I'm absolutely lost, so if you wouldn't mind just explaining to me who you are, please?"

For those of you who study my various tales in order that you may learn lessons about how to cope successfully and happily in the universe, _that is not good diplomacy_.

The Centurion, however, seems to be in a good mood. Or maybe he just likes answering her. If I had a name like Captain Titus Dorica Androcas of the Last Legion, I'd like introducing myself even more than I already do. (I'm the Doctor, by the way… Yeah, that never gets any less fun.)

Clara prompts, "And the Last Legion is _what_ exactly?"

With something that is almost a laugh, "Our more correct name is that of The Pondecai. We are, to be correct, the _descendants_ of the Last Legion, who were the followers of the Great Centurion. Ours is the sacred duty to defend the most powerful weapons in all the known universe, and to keep them from the hands of those who would use them ill."

Clara probably misses a lot of it. It's very strange; the parts I pick up on, the parts that are important to me, those are the parts that have bypassed her completely. Clara skips straight to his last sentence.

Wary, testing him, "That's brave of you. Must put you in the way of some nasty sorts."

"Courage doesn't come into it, Miss. We have the knowledge and the capabilities, and that gives us an obligation."

Oh, I like him. He's got the right idea there. Now if only I could get him to tell me who he got it from…

Actually, this could be the time to talk to you about reality, like I said I would. I'll tell you first what's going to happen to Clara, just so you'll know. She'll give him her name so he can stop calling her Miss. Then, if these _Pondecai_ are as familiar as they seem with me and my story, they'll get into some arbitrary discussion of the role of the companion. He'll respect her, and she'll like that. It'll make her feel better about the whole 'Oh' business.

And meanwhile, I'll tell you a little something about reality.

These are the _Pond_ecai, who are the followers of the _Great Centurion_, who referred to the _Pandorica_ as their raison d'être. They are Roman legionnaires of impeccable character in space, defending powerful weapons from evil-doers. You will forgive my tone of utter panic when I tell you concisely that _they are a pack of Rory-Worshipping-Rories_ which is _wonderful_, you couldn't make me happier than to tell me that there was a pack of Rory-worshipping-Rories out there in the universe and that they were in charge of making things honest and safe, you really couldn't. But _how_? The question is _how_, because all of those things that they're referring to, the Pandorica, the Roman, the Last Legion, _none of that ever happened_!

The world ended, and then I brought it back. You don't remember this because you were ended and then you were back. But I remember because I had to live through it (and then get wished back into existence (which is a bit more painful than you'd think (I have to stop these brackets)) Is that enough? One more?) There, closed. But the world ended. The whole Pandorica, plastic centurion, just shy of two millennia, that was undone. Those involved hardly remembered it themselves.

So here, in reality, this reality now that we're living in and I'm talking about, how on _Earth_ do these supposed-Pondecai even exist?

Ponder, then, the riddle of the Pondecai, if you will. I have to stop talking about reality now. We've come to the end of the corridor, and Horace is being called to bring the keys again.

This door we're at now is not a steel-barred-cell-type-door. It's a two-storey tall set of double doors gilded and marble-panelled. They are so big that if you stand close to them, and I am standing close, you could almost miss that the patterns of the marble echo again the sides of the Pandorica. Almost. You could miss it if every turn and circle of that pattern hadn't printed itself on your mind, if you weren't the only person in the universe who could still remember it. It's a joy to me when Horace finds the right key and he and Flavia push the doors aside, apart, away, out of sight.

Beyond them, the décor changes. It becomes clinical, scientific, white and green and steel. A sterile environment for what I'm told is a very delicate instrument. Will its very-delicacy prevent me from lashing it to the back wall of the Tardis like a bank holiday Dad trying to get a flat pack shed home and getting Clara to keep an eye on it on the journey back? No. But I'm told it is, anyway.

That, of course, is provided there's even a delicate instrument here. I could be here to see Anna, who for all I know is Captain Titus' elderly white-haired mother. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it's a delightful woman that produced such a sterling gent, but I do rather need to obtain some sort of nihilium-analysis technology.

"Doctor," Titus says, and he stands with open arms. "Welcome to ANNA."

Clara's going to ask what Anna means. She is. She's going to ask what we're being welcomed to. She'll do that for me. What she's not going to do is stand there smirking at me, leaving me with no choice but to ask him myself and prove that, yes, I was pretending to know what's been going on all this time. She wouldn't do that to me. Clara's nicer than that.

Her nose is doing that funny, crinkly thing it does when she wants to grin and she won't let herself. It's smug. I don't like it.

"Alright, fine," I sigh to the Captain, "What's ANNA, exactly?"

Flavia passes me on the left, making her way to a sort of plinth. Very large, round, raised up from the floor no more than the height of the average stair. There is a pillar just at the side with some monitors and what looks like a fairly standard calibration system. "Aerobically-Naturised Nihilium Analysis. Soul-photography and extraction from a cellular level."

"Ah," I say. 'Ah' is like 'Oh' when you don't want to be so insulting. Disappointed without being impolite about it. "This whole room is Anna? Big Anna? There's no little portable Anna, then? No sort of Anna-souvenir I can take away with me to show my friends and use to maybe save the universe someday maybe?"

The Captain looks sad that I'm even asking. Forgive me for having a glass-half-full approach. You have to ask. "Nothing like that. I'm happy to offer you unlimited access to this facility but… this technology was a one-off. No chance to refine it. It never got any smaller."

Then I need to get a very good look at how it works before I leave. Sneakily, I move my recovered sonic from my inside pocket to the outside one, so it can hang from my jacket and record what I see. More than that too, it can map the machine we're standing inside, it's controls, what makes it work. It can steal this for me. Borrow. Borrow. Borrow without asking, and you can't exactly _return_ knowledge, but I'll delete the records, so it's still borrowing.

"Does Anna go?" I ask.

Horace moves past, nodding. "She needs a subject, though."

Clara made me admit, when I was trying to be diplomatic, that I was a bit lost. Now that a subject is needed for the workings of a powerful and undemonstrated machine, I slide a step closer to her, hands behind my back, nonchalant. Then, very quickly, I put one of those hands behind _her_ back and give her a good hard shove forward. "Volunteering, are you? Very good, Clara, very brave. Just hop up there where Horace is showing, there's a good girl. Don't worry, perfectly safe, I'm sure. Just like helping out with a magic act. Don't get sawn in half and you'll be alright."

She's still stammering her 'what' and 'no' when she stumbles onto the plinth, and is in position. Horace steps down. Flavia types a few commands I hope the sonic is getting, and Anna activates with a heavy thunk.

Clara freezes, gasping. Utterly terrified, scared to even move, she flicks her eyes to me, but will not speak.

Mere moments pass. Then it starts. It's very small, at first, just a sort of smoky edge along her outline. It shifts like smoke, and is a thousand colours, but all of them are warm and earthy. Reds and browns and deep, rich ambers. Autumn leaves.

"Doctor?" she mumbles, like even moving her lips is too much. The Captain calls over my shoulder that she shouldn't be so scared. But it's not what she wants to hear and so she can't hear him. "Doctor, I'm all fuzzy. What is it?"

"It's you, Clara. All your inside, mind-y, self-y bits. They're out to say hello, that's all."

"Well, can you put them back in, please? I liked them where they were." From the corner of my eye I see Flavia reaching for another button. Very sneaky, very surreptitious, I give her a little signal down by my side to hold her off. "No, don't give her secret signs, Doctor. I can see you. Just put everything back."

"Clara, there's nothing to be scared of. This is just a visual representation. Everything real is still with you. And not just in your heart or in your memory or any of the other stupid places people try to say that yourself comes from, but in all of you. In every single cell, it's right there. That's your life. Everything that makes you Clara, whose initials spell the noise a pigeon makes. It makes your eyes brighter than any other eyes that I know. It makes you talk faster than _any_ other living being." There. The first idea of a smile flashes across her uncertain features. "You are not second best. You are not a mystery or a distraction. The Tardis doesn't hate you."

"She does."

"She doesn't. She just knows a different story, that's all. Now, Clara, what I'm going to say next is very important. Are you listening?"

"Don't have much choice, do I, while I'm stuck up here and you won't put my bloody soul back…"

"Clara Oswin Oswald," I begin. At just the sound of her name, her aura grows. Her nervousness and fear are subsiding. She doesn't feel so endangered or exposed and so she's able to share, whether she knows it or not. It grows, and strains to grow more against her remaining reservations. "You are not now, nor have you ever been, nor will you ever be, 'Oh'."

Another moment's struggle. Then her eyes meet mine through the haze and Clara, delightful Clara in all her glorious blooming loveliness, she _blooms_, just bursting, and looks around in wonder and awe at her own incredible colours, flashing green and gold amongst the earth tones. Here through the cloud there's a crackle of sound that is her mother's voice, and here the haze momentarily forms two young, playful faces, and Clara ducks as the imprint the Tardis has left on her whizzes past on its way to somewhere incredibly exciting.

She giggles. It is bright as electricity and gives part of her aura the precise texture of a paper bag so crumpled its gone soft. There's a faint and slightly chemical smell of strawberries. I fight to recognize it and then cry, "Opal Fruits! I love Opal Fruits!"

"I like the green ones better," she tells me, sounding happily dazed by it all. She laughs again when the scent changes to sharp lemon-and-lime, and somewhere near her ear there's a big, lazy chewing motion as she recalls getting her teeth stuck together, the sound of the grin that was permanently pinned to her face as a child.

"There." This is all I really wanted. I didn't know that. I thought I wanted the technology, or at least the capacity to recreate it. I didn't. I just wanted this. "I wanted to see you glow." And when I say that, she _really_ starts glowing. I'm not entirely sure what to do with that. Flounder a bit, turn around from her, and isn't it funny how you always get an itch at the back of your neck when something like this happens? "Well, the machine's no good if it doesn't work, is it? I needed a guinea pig."

This time, Clara says, "Oh." Flavia shuts off the machine. By them time Clara's hopped back down, she's grinning again, "That was amazing."

"Obviously I can't let you take it away," the Captain is telling me, "But it's as I said; whatever visitor or prisoner or subject you might want to bring here, I can promise you won't end up in the cell again."

I won't be back. I'll build my own. But then again, I was being diplomatic today, wasn't I? "I appreciate that." And now we have to go. Not that it hasn't been a nice visit since the unfortunate imprisonment incident ended, but we have to. Clara, for all that she's still beaming, still glowing even now that the glow is gone, wants to go. She can't see this herself, but there's something disturbing about having everything that makes you you plucked out and visualized. Even a spirit as intensely beautiful as hers has darker places, and at the very best it's all exposure. She's still at the height now, but later on, when she's alone, when she's back in her jimjams and trying to sleep, I'm not sure she'll be able to.

Autumn leaves. May I never forget she looked like autumn leaves.

I don't explain all this. I say something cheerful and meaningless. 'Must dash' and then a false, borderline facetious excuse, probably.

I get as far as those patterned doors again before I turn on my heel and rush back to the Captain. "No, wait. Wait-wait-wait-wait-_why_? Why do I have unlimited access? How do you know me, what do I mean here?"

"You are the Doctor," he tells me, looking baffled by my idiotic question, "who gave the Great Centurion the most valuable advice he ever received."

I'm thinking… thinking… "…You'll have to narrow it down for me."

"You told him, as he stood at the doors of the sealed Pandorica, that he would never be able to bear the eternity of waiting at those doors. You made him aware that it would drive him mad. His sacrifice was always willing, and that was always admirable. But you gave him a choice. That makes his sacrifice intelligent. That's what makes it heroic."

"But how do you know all that, it never happened. I mean, it _did_, but then I took it away again and I'm the only one who's supposed to know anymore."

This doesn't confuse him. Which is really good going, because I myself am deeply, _deeply_ confused. "But you still knew," is how he replies to me.

"Yes."

"And you believed. Even though you didn't see it all, you believed without a doubt that it all happened. The long wait, the Last Legion, the Great Centurion."

"Without a doubt. And I still do."

Then it was real. Isn't that what he's trying to tell me? So long as I brought it back with me, out of nothingness, it's real. I brought it back with the stars. Something of it must have survived. Writings on tablets, drawings on walls, carved Pandoricas. The story still exists so long as there is somebody to tell it, and somebody to listen.

I've told and they've listened. The Pondecai. The descendants of the Last Legion, followers of the Great Centurion.

You can't hug a Roman captain, not in good conscience, so I wait until we're out of the room and then I hug Clara. Tight, but only for a second. Then I stand back and start down the corridor. She's still giddy enough to giggle. "Alright, that's the third one today. What was that for?"

"You have pretty insides."

* * *

[Dedicated, like I said before, to the lovely folks over at Rory Williams Is The New Chuck Norris - the least I could do for you guys. You have the prettiest insides on Facebook.]


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